The vampire gave a snarl and thumped me in the chest.

Momentarily weightless, I came crashing down on the road. Wind knocked out of me, my baton skittered away and disappeared into the darkness and dust.

Bloody hell.

Sometimes metaphors just don’t cut it.

Not only was I up Shit Creek with my paddle a distant memory, I’d accidentally dropped my lunch overboard, been bitten to buggery by midges and capsized. On top of that, I’d managed to ingest a mouthful of foul water. Furthermore, it was getting dark and I was pretty sure I’d spend my final hours lost and alone, shitting myself to death with dysentery on the shore of that godforsaken creek.

Or something like that.

Goddamn, I hate Christmas.

My mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood and my ribs burned when I tried to stand.

Had to move. Had to get some distance between me and the bloodsucker.

Maybe that’s a bit harsh. I don’t hate Christmas.

When you’re living in the armpit of the universe, where the threads of reality have worn thin, all manner of weird bullshit starts to happen on occasions of cosmic and religious significance.

Exhibit A: The pale, fanged bastard who just managed to kick my arse. This sort of thing happened in Holbrooke all the goddamn time. Christmas, Hanukkah, Easter, Saint Basil's Day and, curiously, World Maritime Day.

I heard the slow crunch of gravel from behind the Interceptor. Its motor was still running and the light from the headlamps burned my eyes.

The vampire was taking his time. It obviously didn’t think that an overweight, country copper presented much of a threat.

I glanced towards the gravel shoulder, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The baton.

It was my only chance of getting out of the situation alive.

Honestly, I’d turned out to be a bit of a shithouse witch.

Pulling myself into a crouch, I moved silently to the roadside, overcome with a desperate feeling of failure.

I was going to die.

Ethel had asked me to protect Holbrooke and, here I was, about to be taken out by a bloodsucker. I’d feel the sharp, searing pain of the vampire’s teeth as they pierced my neck, gouts of warm, arterial blood spilling down my front and, if I was lucky, the vampire—in its frenzy—would snap my neck. If not, I’d slowly bleed out on the roadside, reaching for the baton etched with sigils and imbued with a pitiful amount of magical energy. My vision would blur and fade and, in those final seconds, I’d have a chance to reflect on what a bloody useless bastard I was.

Regaining my breath, I crept closer to the roadside, considering my options and deciding that my formal training as a copper was pretty much useless when it came to the supernatural. If, through some bloody miracle, I managed to survive, I was going to apply myself diligently to the thick tome of spells and incantations Ethel had left behind.

Vision gradually returning, I surveyed the roadside, noting that the footsteps had stopped. There was a moment of silence. I remained motionless. My throat was dry and my mouth was bloody.

I swallowed.

This was it.

Then…the baton…it had landed just off the shoulder, a couple of yards away. The vampire gave a throaty hiss and I hurled myself towards the weapon as the full, feral force of the creature slammed into me.  I half rolled, reaching out with one hand as it reared back in triumph, a maw of needles glinting in the Interceptor’s headlamps.

I’d never been this close to a vampire. The sheer, animal fury of the creature—with its blood-red eyes and mouthful of razor-sharp teeth—would be enough to make most men piss themselves. I’d seen things much bigger and much scarier than this bastard.

Then…wait…was that AC/DC?

The creature paused and cocked its head.

We stared at each other for a few surreal seconds before turning towards the source of the sound.

Through the dust, I could see a burnt orange Holden HQ in the middle of the road. The thump of a bass drum, rhythmic guitars and the throaty drawl of Bon Scott spilled into the darkness.

“You’re in trouble now, mate,” I said to the vampire.

The engine roared, tires screamed, and the car lurched towards us. Summoning the last of my strength, I grunted and kicked out., sending the vampire sprawling into the middle of the road. There was a split second to register the confusion on its face as the tires crushed its head. I tried to look away but caught a glimpse of the pulpy explosion. Bile rose in the back of my throat and I vomited, leaning against the bonnet of the Interceptor and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

The car reversed. There was another sickening crunch, it stopped, the driver turned off the music and lowered the window.

“G’day, Steve!”

The young woman behind the wheel had piercing, intelligent eyes. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, she’d obviously come looking for me straight after finishing her shift at The Coach and Horses.

“Looked like you could use a hand,” she said, opening the door and stepping gingerly around the remains of the vampire that were beginning to smoke and bubble. “Another one?”

I nodded and spat a mouthful of bile and blood onto the side of the road. The adrenalin was starting to fade, and I could feel exhaustion lapping at the edges of my consciousness.

“Things are getting worse,” I said.

The vampire was turning to ash. What hadn’t disappeared in the gentle breeze would be erased completely at dawn. Whatever held vampires together dissipated pretty bloody quickly when you drove a stake through their hearts or ground their head to a messy pulp with the front tires of a Holden.

“I can help,” she offered.

I turned my back and looked into the darkness.

“I’ll manage,” I replied. “Besides, Ethel will be back soon.”

Hurry up, Ethel.

She was out there, somewhere, taking the fight to an ancient and powerful cult of necromancers causing all manner of supernatural shenanigans.

I’d been left to defend Holbrooke.

To put it bluntly, I was scared.

Just a few months ago, we’d staved off a bunch of necromancers attempting to tear a hole in reality but, in the aftermath, Holbrooke had become a sought-after holiday destination for things that went bump in the night.

Sergeant Steven Night. The thin green line. The only person standing between our small town and the tentacled, fanged horrors that lurked at the threadbare seams of reality. My friends had almost died defending the town a couple of months back.

Damned if I’d let that happen again.

So, here I was: alone, scared and up to my bloody arse in vampires.

“She’ll be right,” I said, patting her shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

“Just one question,” she said, looking over my shoulder into the darkness. “What the hell is that?”

I turned around and looked into the paddock on the other side of the gravel road. In the confusion and terror, I hadn’t noticed what lay beyond the barbed wire.

“Bloody hell,” I said, taking a few, cautious steps.

There was a single, lone cypress tree standing in an open paddock. It was partially illuminated by the headlamps, limbs twisted and gnarled, dead leaves radiating from the trunk to form a malignant corona. The grass, too, was desiccated. Drawing closer, I lifted a strand of slack wire and stepped into the field. A chill passed over me. Dead vegetation crunched beneath my boots.

“What is it?” Sandy asked. She started to follow and I held out a hand to stop her. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Stay back.”

She didn’t listen.

There were three dark mounds just beyond the tree. Dead grass crunched underfoot as we drew closer. Catching a whiff of decay, I covered my mouth and knelt to examine the prone forms. The cattle had died horribly, mouths stretched wide in pain, flanks bloated and lumpy, pocked with lesions the size of dinner plates. Suppurating wounds glistened in the meagre light.

Sandy gave me a knowing look. Something was terribly wrong in Holbrooke and we were the only ones who could do something about it.