Hunter and Trapp, by Larry Kollar

“Cleanup on aisle 400.”

She wore a cheap black summer dress. In January. The tat running down her leg identified her as “ALYSS.”

Perfect, thought Hunter. She wasn’t alone — the two girls with her were similarly dressed — but fortune favored the patient, and a Zaxby’s along GA400 made him one faceless nobody among hundreds of nobodies who came through the place every day. He looked her over while they placed their order: plain face, adequate tits, soft belly, round but lumpy ass, thin hair obviously dyed deep black. Redneck trying to look goth. Alyss caught him looking, and he gave her a brief nod. She turned back to her friends, dismissing him. Good for him, bad for her: Hunter was both his name and his calling. He worked the shallow end of the gene pool.

Hunter ordered a Boneless Wings Meal and chose a table where he could keep an eye on Alyss’s back, playing with his phone and watching them over it. The girls were alternately loud and whispering, acting nowhere near their age. After a while, Alyss got up; Hunter counted eight seconds then took his drink to the fountain. She turned toward the bathrooms.

As Hunter refilled his cup, the two friends brushed past him and slipped outside, shrieking at cold air on too much bare skin. They jumped in their car and took off just as Alyss emerged. She squawked at the empty table and bolted for the door — too late.

“Heyyyyy!” she yelled at the departing Vibe, arms wrapped around herself.

Too easy, Hunter thought, snapping the lid on his drink. He set the alarm on his phone for eight minutes, and stepped outside. “They ditched you?”

Alyss turned to look at him. He worked hard to cultivate the “harmless” look: soft edges, nerdy glasses and hair, easily forgettable. That, and pitching his voice a little high, left an impression that girls might not be his thing.

“Yeah,” she said at last. “With my jacket and my phone.” Her voice held back tears, and she shivered.

“That sucks. You need a ride?”

She stood there for a moment, freezing as her rusty brain tried to think. “I dunno,” she said at last.

“Yeah. I understand. They’ll come back for you anyway. Won’t they?”

“Probably not.” She unwrapped her arms. “I knew those whorebags would take off. But I had to pee.”

“Come on. I’ll take you home.

“You sure?”

“I got nothing better to do tonight.” He hit the unlock button and the Volvo wagon chirped and flashed its headlights. He’d backed in to hide the stolen plate. “As long as you’re not all the way past Atlanta or something.”

She laughed, already walking toward the car. “No. I’m just two stoplights up from here. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” She got in, still shivering.

“These Swedish cars get warm fast,” he assured her. “But there’s a blanket behind the seats if you want it.”


“Oh, I’m Hunter Greene.” The last name was fake.

“I’m Alyss Trapp.”

“Seat belt? This car gripes a lot if you don’t wear it.”

She snapped the belt, sealing her fate, and he took his time through the parking lot. “Hey, where’s the back seats?” she asked, retrieving the blanket.

“Flipped down. I bought a bookcase yesterday.” As he turned onto the four-lane, his phone alarm chimed and he talked to nothing as he drove. “Hey bro. Mercy mission. Yeah. Pizza? Yeah, if you call it in. I can pick it up —”

“Hey, you missed my turn.”

“Oh crap, I overshot. I’ll call you back, okay?” The turn he wanted came up, and he made the left, crossing the southbound lanes onto an empty side road.

Alyss shrank under the blanket. “You’re not taking me home.”

“Not right away.” He pulled off.

“What — what are you gonna do?” She tried the door, locked of course. The tears in her voice came back.

“That’s up to you,” he said. “I’m going to fuck you, but it doesn’t have to be violent or anything. Make it easy — I fuck you, then I drop you off a block from your house. You can keep the blanket to wrap up in. Make it hard, I still fuck you, but you’ll be in a lot of pain afterwards. Cuts, bruises, maybe a broken nose, and you’ll limp home from here with your clothes half torn apart. So how’s it gonna go?”

“I thought you were a nice guy.” Her voice went flat. “If you’d just asked, maybe I woulda gave you my number.”

“Maybe means no. Easy or hard?”

“Duh. Easy.”

“Good. There’s a pad behind your seat. Roll it out in back, then take your clothes off.”

He switched on the dome light and watched her undress, whimpering as she laid down with the blanket over her, then joined her. She watched the back window as he rolled a condom on.

Hunter pulled the blanket away and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Your tits are a lot nicer than I thought. You need to get a decent bra, though. Stop shopping at Wal-Mart, okay? Maybe have a tailor make your dress fit better.” He laid on her, pinning her arms. “Just close your eyes and think of England.”

“What — ow-uh!” as he pushed into her. The car was quiet for a while, the only sounds his movements and her quick shallow breathing. After a minute, he pushed up to watch her tits jiggle to the rhythm of his thrusts, which got him off sooner than expected. He finished, then rose.

“Are you done? Can I get dressed now?” Her voice was shaky.

“Sure. Unless you want to wait ten, fifteen minutes, then I’ll be ready for more —”

She threw her clothes on, then looked up to see a long leather strap in his hands. “You’re gonna kill me.” She scooted toward the back.

“Sorry. Leaving a witness is a bad idea.”

“I won’t tell! I promise!”

“I can’t take that chance.” He advanced, backing her into the corner.

“Please!” The tears flowed freely now.

“I wish I didn’t have to. But seriously. You won’t contribute anything positive in your life. Just some kids, just like you. Best to keep you from breeding in the first place —”

She tried to dive past him, fell, and Hunter was on her back. He slipped the strap around her neck and pulled it tight. It was over in a few minutes.

“Clean kill,” he said, flipping the blanket over Alyss’s still body. He clambered into the driver’s seat, thinking through his next moves: drive to the lake, maybe do her again, tie on the weights and toss —

Twin clamps seized his arms and jerked him over the seat, snapping the headrest and nearly dislocating his shoulders. Before he could scream, Alyss was straddling his chest.

“I trapped big game this time,” she snarled. “Rape and murder. Would you like to beg for your life now?”

She opened her mouth — he saw the fangs and screamed at last. But not for long.

Alyssa shed the glamour, revealing the elegant form of a vampire queen. Around her swirled the confused and hurting spirits of Hunter’s victims, the pain and terror of their final moments binding them to his car.

“Go, sisters,” she whispered. “You have been avenged. Find peace and rest.” As she climbed into the front seats, the spirits began to transcend. Some tried to hug her, others thanked her. One by one, they moved on to a place Alyssa would never see.

She pulled her phone from her boot, and punched a number.

“What’s up?”

“Cleanup on aisle 400.”

“What charges?”

“Serial rape and murder.”

“Wow, good one, Alyssa! I bet he tastes better than that spammer from week before last. Where are you?”

She gave directions, and the ghoul said, “Okay. Twenty minutes.”

“Hurry. I’m getting sleepy.”

Hunter’s blood had fed her. His flesh would soon feed the ghouls. His soul was already in Hell, and his car would go to a nearby chop shop. By the time she awoke tomorrow evening, all physical traces of Hunter “Greene” would be gone.

Trapp was both her name and her calling.

Her bait drew sociopaths.

Click here to vote for “Hunter and Trapp.”

Posted on May 3, 2012, in Contest, Issue 4: Blood Vengeance: Vampyre and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. So glad she was a vampire that kicked his *ss. lol! Great story! 🙂

  2. This is my favorite not-written-by-me story of the bunch! 🙂 I like the “name and calling” bookends with Hunter and Trapp, and I like the vampire righting the wrongs and freeing the trapped souls.

  3. Nice story Larry, I really enjoyed this!

  4. This one is like an action movie, sharp and fast! Sizzling dialogue, really liked this.

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