Across town, a van drove at normal speed, cruising through the night's express. The van reeked of blood and gunpowder. Four men sat inside, their tactical gear stained dark red from the night's work. Steam rose from their clothes in the cold air.
"Third generation bastard nearly took my head off," Mendy said, pressing a field bandage against his neck. "Came at me with that blood whip bullshit. If Santos hadn't put two rounds in its chest..."
"You'd be vampire chow," Santos finished, checking his rifle. "That's what you get for underestimating them. Third gen and up, they're a different breed entirely."
The rookie, Thompson, sat in the back seat trying not to look at the gore covering his vest. His hands shook as he cleaned his sidearm. "How do they do it? The blood magic?"
