B-Movie Attack Read Online Free Page A

located—was curiously attractive. Slim hips, wide thighs, firm buttocks, a pair of tits that sang songs to a man’s libido and a flawless and smooth white face and healthy lips. Her scent was alluring.  
    “Good evening,” Al said. He checked his watch: 5:58 a.m. Wow, it’s late. Or should I say early? “What brings you here at this hour? Can I direct you somewhere, ma’am?”
    The woman turned around, offering him a confident smile. “I’m looking for Lock box #4213. This place is a maze. I’ve got a key. It’s an emergency.”
    He waited for the woman to expand on the meaning of “emergency” but didn’t push the issue when she kept it to herself.  
    “Absolutely.” He walked her to the west end. Number 4213 was a seized property section. He wasn’t briefed on the details. His supervisor said some things kept here he was better left in the dark about. “It gets really quiet in this place late at night. Eerie sometimes.”
    “Do you get scared by yourself?” The query came off as too interested.  
    “Wayne is on the other side, so no. We talk, chat the hours away, and keep a good eye on the place.” Al removed a tape measure from his back pocket. “At the end of my shift, I tell the boss I measured every corner, and I say ‘Sir, the place hasn’t moved an inch’.”
    “That’s funny.” She touched his shoulder. "You’re cute.”
    “Huh?” Al was confused, the spot she touched panging with the same intensity as his blushing cheeks. “Y-yeah, but the boss doesn’t laugh. His sense of humor is, well, lacking.”
    “You do a good job,” she said, placing her fingertip on her tongue, her hazel eyes penetrating his. “It’s really quiet down here. It’s too bad Wayne’s nearby. We could, you know, rearrange the walls—it all depends on how hard you wanna fuck me.”
    “Excuse me—?”
    Nothing changed about the woman’s face except the jagged-tipped fangs that tore through her gums. Before Al could duck or dodge, his trachea was clamped through and torn clean. A rip in his neck belched blood. Al flopped to the ground, seized by a heart attack at the sudden loss of blood. He clutched the wound, his fingers entering inches deep and touching the wet, slick walls of his esophagus. The woman then slashed her nails across his chest, licking and sucking up blood. Then she released Al’s flaccid body.  
    The rest of her turned plated, metamorphosing into a reptilian vampire creature. Her feet clicked on the tiles. Her fist slammed like an iron bludgeon into the nearest door. The hinges exploded from their posts, the wood caving in. She scanned the walls for box #4213. The Private Film Coalition of Public Morals had used the building to store Stan Merle Sheckler’s and dozens of other directors’ banned films seized throughout the late seventies to 1985. This lock box was larger, three huge Greyhound bus lockers combined. She hurled her fist into the front until the lock dented to the point it loosened and clanked to the ground. The door opened by itself. She snapped her fingers, and three more of the snarling vampires entered the room. Working together, they each carried out rubber bins containing hundreds of reels. They were unmarked, the dust unsettling from the tops.  
    Each of the five vampires looked down upon Al’s body, his left leg twitching randomly.  
    The blonde laughed. “He wants more, doesn’t he?”
    “You didn’t kill him good enough.”
    The five hunkered down upon Al and finished him off. Afterward, they flew from the halls and into the night and swiftly returned to Ted Fuller’s apartment to plan a horror film marathon. One vampire stayed behind to finish the final part of the job.
     
    Security guard Wayne Carton froze in place. The wicked blood-boiling roars of agony carried from the opposite end of the corridor to him. His first impulse was to sprint to the source, but first he phoned the police. Then the whup-crash sound of bending steel caused him to