The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon by Scott M. Baker

the SUV he had stolen from long-term parking at Union Station. 2:18. Because he had at least a two-hour ride to Washington, he would need to head back now if he wanted to have enough time to ditch the vehicle and make it to the hotel by dawn. His foot pushed down on the accelerator, and the SUV’s speed inched up to sixty-five miles per hour.
    Things worldwide had changed quite a bit since Walker had been turned a millennium ago during the Crusades. Since then, he went by many names, sired scores of masters, and founded more covens than he could recall. He had fed off of Crusaders in the Levant. Had ravaged Europe during the Black Death. Had feasted off of a hundred and fifty years of wars and revolutions in Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. And had cut a swath of destruction across the New World during the influenza pandemic of 1919. Every time a tragedy plagued mankind, Walker could be found exploiting it. Feeding off of it. Enjoying it.
    It was an unusual existence for the eldest son of poor Christian farmers from the Sudan. Born over a thousand years ago with the name Shomari, he had lived a normal, mundane existence tilling his parents’ land along the Nile until captured by an Arab raiding party and sold into slavery in Cairo. Years of physical labor had made him strong and muscular, and as such commanded a good price on the auction block. The fat, sleazy Arab who purchased him had intentions other than work. Once back in his new home in Antioch, every night he would be sodomized by that sadistic beast, being forced to perform sexual acts like a woman, or having them performed on him. It was more than just a nightly assault on his body. It was an offense against his religion. An offense against his masculinity. An offense against his dignity. Adding insult to injury, his slave master gave him the name Adham, the black stallion.
    The indignity lasted for three years, finally coming to an end during the siege of Antioch. Amidst the carnage and terror, he had sought out one man. Muhammad al Muhammad Abu Bakir. Rumors amongst the slave community intimated that Abu Bakir was some type of wizard, a man capable of bestowing incredible strength to whomever he deemed worthy, albeit at a price the horrors of which no one ever dared ask about. Many a slave fantasized about what he or she would do if they possessed such strength, but none had enough courage to obtain it. Yet as the city crumbled, as panic and despair replaced order, he sought out Abu Bakir and begged to be granted the strength. His got his wish and received so much more than he bargained for. Unfathomable strength. Immortality.
    And the lust for revenge, the most powerful emotion.
    The lights from a small gas station/convenience store attracted Walker’s attention. The place was run-down, poorly lit, and made of cinderblock walls with panes of glass set high in the structure. At first he thought it was closed because he saw no one around. Then he spotted an old Chevy Impala parked around back and a rusty pick-up truck beyond the twin gas pumps with two men standing around it. The SUV’s fuel gauge read one-quarter full, so Walker decided to fill up.
    Pulling in between the pumps and the main station, Walker climbed out and filled up the tank with twenty dollars’ worth of regular. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two men by the pick-up staring at him, whispering back and forth to each other. The taller one wore a baseball cap and a black T-shirt with a faded Union Jack on front. The shorter wore a blue flannel shirt and red parka vest. The finest the South had to offer. Walker wondered if they kept their white sheets and hoods in the pick-up with them.
    When he finished pumping the gas, Walker went inside to pay. He had just finished handing his money to the clerk, a fat man with scraggly red hair and beard, when the two rednecks from outside entered. The taller one stood by the counter, with parka boy behind him, blocking his way out.