Rocket - Chapter 4
Naida - US/Mexico Border
Sunset woke her.
The earth let her go the way a tide returns a swimmer it has temporarily decided to keep, dirt flowing around her like she was swimming up through it instead of buried, every grain politely rearranging itself out of her path with a patience nothing alive had ever shown her. Naida broke surface in the wash between two ridges, shaking off soil that smoothed itself back to normal behind her, the desert closing the door of her day-bed without leaving any sign of which door it had been or who had used it. No trace she’d been there at all, no scent line, no settled disturbance for thermal optics to find at first light, the country itself complicit now in the small cold business of hiding her from people who still thought of her as recoverable.
One night since the grave. The second night of this new existence, and the desert already felt more like home than anywhere she’d lived before.
But tonight something was different. The wind carried smells that made her freeze: gun oil, the chemical stink of tactical gear, and underneath it all, men. Lots of them. Men who’d been hunting too long in the desert heat.
Mierda. Time to figure out who’s actually running this shit show. They didn’t listen when I told them to leave me be. Time to make it too expensive to continue.
The stars were so bright they hurt to look at, each one sharp enough to cut. Every sound layered itself in her ears like she was wearing headphones with the volume cranked, wind through branches, something small scuttling over rocks, an owl hunting in the distance.
And woven through it all: radio static. Boots on stone. The click of weapons being checked by nervous fingers.
They’d brought reinforcements.
She smelled them before she saw them: sweat and Chemical Blue cologne. That truck stop shit one of the coyotes had worn during the journey north, like it could cover the stink of unwashed bodies and violation. And equipment that had no business in the desert.
Shit. How many this time? And how do I fight actual soldiers or whatever?
She was sixteen and way out of her depth, but something hungry and patient whispered that she’d been underestimated before. That worked out pretty well for her last time.
Naida checked her stolen gear with hands that still shook when she wasn’t concentrating. Combat boots from last night’s kill; these actually fit. Tactical knife. Small radio with earbud, frequency still active.
They were talking. Broadcasting their positions like they’d never considered their target might be listening.
“Alpha team, report status on grid seven-seven.”
“Grid seven-seven clear. Moving to seven-eight. Motion sensors negative.”
“Copy,” Command acknowledged. “Bravo team, what’s your twenty?”
“Bravo at checkpoint delta. No contact.”
Grid patterns and checkpoints... they think I’m just some random escaped prisoner or whatever. They have no idea what they’re dealing with.
The smile that crossed her face wasn’t the practiced one she’d learned in the trucks. Sharper. More honest. The kind that showed teeth.
She listened to the radio paint pictures of their operation. Six teams, two men each, sweeping north from the border. Someone on high ground running command. Professional setup. Competent execution.
Wrong species, pendejos.
Pick them off one by one. Make them afraid.
The voice felt familiar now, like a friend giving advice. For once what it wanted matched what she wanted: make them pay for thinking she was still cargo to collect.
The landscape rolled out in front of her in shades of silver and black, moonlight showing details human eyes would miss. Rocky outcroppings, narrow washes carved by flash floods, thorny bushes casting shadows that welcomed her.
She could smell everything: javelinas that had passed through sometime ago, coyotes marking territory near water, the chemical traces of equipment that didn’t belong.
Okay, so I can hear them, smell them, and they have no clue where I am. Plus I’ve got this thing amplifying what already worked fine when I was human. These pendejos are so screwed.
She was trying to convince herself more than anything. Not confidence, not even close. Desperate hope that she had enough advantages to survive men with guns and training.
Naida moved southeast toward Bravo team’s coordinates, her vampire senses mapping terrain ahead. Every step landed on earth that recognized her now, not quite liquid like during the underground thing, but responsive. Quieter than it should be.
The desert helped her hunt. The ground muffled her footfalls, the bushes released bitter-sweet smell to hide her scent, the rocks whispered under her boots like settling bones instead of crunching.
Twenty minutes of careful movement brought her to a boulder field. The first target appeared against the stars, silhouetted like he was posing for her. His partner hung back fifty meters: too far to take both at once, close enough that isolated kills were possible.
Perfect. Time to see what happens when I do this on purpose instead of by accident.
She’d been weaponizing male stupidity since she was twelve, since her cousin taught her that boys her age would do anything for a girl who looked at them right. His molestations were meant to break her, instead she learned from them, and that knowledge would keep her alive now.
She’d felt it before: heat radiating from her skin, something that made men stupid. Made them stop thinking tactically and start thinking with their dicks. Now she needed to control it instead of letting it flare up randomly.
The positioning took time. Right approach angle so his partner couldn’t see. Close enough to the ridge for good sightlines. Far enough from their rally point that backup wouldn’t arrive in time.
Last night I killed two because I had to. Tonight I kill as many as it takes to make this operation cost more than I’m worth. Simple economics, pendejos.
She arranged herself between two large stones, letting moonlight catch her throat and torn clothes. Vulnerability and assets: men who’d spent weeks hunting human cargo through the desert would respond to both.
She let the warmth build in her chest, that thing that made men stupid, the same heat she had felt when she’d reached for Mateo and could feel him trembling in the courtyard a hundred years ago, except amplified now by something underneath the skin that she had not yet found the bottom of, something that operated through the air the way scent operated, and that responded to her decision to deploy it the way a flashlight responded to a thumb on a switch. It felt like breathing out, but the breath had weight. Substance. Like it could travel through air and touch things, like it was a hand she had grown without noticing and was reaching out with for the first time, finding the contractor’s face in the dark and pressing softly against the parts of him that were already prone to listening.
His steady approach faltered. His breathing changed. The trained sweep of his weapon dropped a few degrees, eyes catching on her instead of scanning the terrain. Something she could use.
“Jesus.” He’d stopped moving. “What the fuck?”
Radio crackled: “Ramirez, what’s your status?”
“I... there’s something up here. Someone.”
“Armed?”
The scout moved closer, weapon lowering as whatever she was doing overrode his training. “Negative. Looks like... looks like the target. Young female. Injured, maybe.”
Come on, pendejo. Just a little closer.
She stepped into moonlight with deliberate vulnerability, torn shirt catching breeze in ways that drew attention to pale skin that glowed. When she spoke, her voice carried desperate gratitude wrapped around lies.
“Please... are you here to help me? I’ve been lost for days...”
The words came out breathy and uncertain. She’d been lost since the trucks, since the violation, since someone decided her life was worth less than whatever profit they’d make.
The warmth poured out of her and wrapped around the words like honey over broken glass. She meant every syllable. She was also deciding where to put the knife.
“Easy, chica,” he said, moving closer while his radio stayed silent. “I’m here to help. What’s your name? How long have you been out here?”
She could hear his heartbeat accelerating, smell the chemical changes in his sweat as protective instincts mixed with arousal. Whatever she was radiating, it was working. Turning dangerous opposition into willing prey.
“Naida,” she whispered, letting real vulnerability bleed through. “I don’t know how long. Days? I’m so scared... and hungry.”
Hungry doesn’t even begin to cover it. I could drain you dry and still want more.
“Hungry?” He was close now. She could see desire building despite the rifle and the body armor and the earpiece still squawking his name. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Oh, pendejo. You have no idea what kind of hungry I am.
“I can’t remember,” she said, stepping closer. Arm’s reach now. “Everything’s been... confused. I remember trucks, and men who hurt me, and then... darkness.”
She did remember trucks. She did remember watching other girls get violated. The thing-whatever-it-was took all of that and aimed it like a weapon.
“It’s okay now,” he said, reaching to touch her shoulder with trembling fingers. “You’re safe. We’ll take care of you.”
‘Safe’ and ‘take care of’ - right. I know exactly what kind of care you’re thinking about, cabrón. Same kind every pendejo offers before showing what he really wants.
Radio crackled: “Ramirez, report your status. You’ve been dark for five minutes.”
But the scout didn’t answer. His attention had narrowed completely to the pale girl who glowed in starlight, whose presence made the radio and the mission and the partner waiting fifty meters back feel very far away.
Now. Take him now.
“What I really need,” Naida said, voice dropping to near-whisper while the heat intensified, “is for you people to leave me alone. What’s it going to take?”
“Leave you alone?” The words came out slow, confused, like he was speaking through fog. “I... we can’t. Orders.”
“Whose orders?” Not because she wanted the answer. Because keeping him talking kept him distracted.
Her presence had become intoxicating now, radiating heat that made rational thought impossible. The scout’s breathing turned shallow and rapid as arousal overrode paranoia, weapon hanging forgotten.
“Carlos Mendoza,” he managed, voice thick. “Runs this whole corridor. Personal interest in your recovery. You’re expensive, cost him too much already.”
The name hit like a fist to the stomach. For a half-second she was back in concrete walls painted cheerful yellow, the sharp-sweet burn of Lucas lollipop chili powder on her tongue trying to scrub away the bitter residue Carlos had left in her mouth, his soft voice praising her for being such a good student...
No. Not going there. Not now.
She shoved the memory fragment down hard, hands suddenly shaking for reasons that had nothing to do with cold or the kill ahead.
Enough play with your food. Finish this.
“Thank you,” she said, “for being so helpful.”
The knife went into his throat with precision, not because she had professional training, but because vampire coordination guided the blade exactly right while supernatural strength made penetration effortless. He died confused, never understanding how the frightened girl became something that killed with inhuman efficiency.
Blood poured from the wound in warm streams that her vampire senses found intoxicating. The metallic sweetness called to her like chocolate when she was pequeña, like salvation when she was dying. Her teeth ached with frustrated hunger.
Feed. Now.
Not now. Can’t lose focus with another one coming. Need to stay tactical.
Take what is yours.
Cállate. I can’t think with you screaming about every drop I don’t drink. First threat, then hunger. Priorities.
The second scout approached with weapon ready, concerned by his partner’s silence. Professional caution couldn’t protect him from supernatural speed that made human reflexes obsolete, but her attack lacked smooth efficiency.
She came out of shadow fast enough to seem like teleportation, but the strike felt clumsy, enhanced strength compensating for inexperience rather than skill. His collarbone shattered under vampire force she couldn’t quite control, sending him down hard with weapon clattering across limestone.
He keyed his radio frantically with his injured arm, the damage serious but not fatal yet.
“Command, this is Bravo! Under attack! Target...”
She crushed his windpipe, ending transmission before vital information reached other teams. But radio chatter suggested someone had heard enough to know Bravo was in trouble.
Good. Let them be afraid. Maybe if they’re scared enough, they’ll just... leave me alone.
Radio chatter exploded across frequencies as remaining teams responded:
“All units, converge on Bravo’s last known!”
“Command, request immediate backup and medical!” another voice shouted.
“What the fuck did she do to Ramirez?”
Hunt them all.
But Naida was already seeking underground concealment, vampire instincts recognizing withdrawal over continued engagement. The earth welcomed her body with liquid cooperation, flowing soil that embraced her descent while maintaining structure above.
From underground, she listened to search teams sweeping the kill site with methodical thoroughness. They maintained visual contact, established overlapping coverage, communicated constantly.
“Jesus Christ.” The voice had gone very quiet. “Look at Ramirez’s throat. What kind of knife work is that?”
“Professional. Precise. This isn’t some scared trafficking victim.”
“Command, we need extraction and complete operational review.”
If they only knew I have no idea what I’m doing. I got lucky. Hell I’m just making it up as I go.
Hours passed before search teams moved beyond her position. She emerged silently, leaving no trace, enhanced senses painting detailed pictures of terrain where five teams now tried to establish perimeter around space where their quarry might hide.
Wrong strategy. She wasn’t hiding; she was hunting.
The pattern continued through the night: targeted strikes against isolated targets, that heat she radiated deployed with increasing precision, hit-and-run tactics growing more efficient with each repetition. Not smooth or trained, but patient refinement of someone applying dead-girl advantages to skills developed through childhood survival.
But the hunger grew with each kill. Each time she resisted feeding, the ache in her teeth intensified. The voice got louder, more insistent. Her hands started shaking between attacks, control fraying at the edges.
Feed.
Just a little longer. Finish the job, then I can...
Now. Take it.
The fourth kill almost broke her. She stood over the body, blood pooling around boots, teeth fully extended, hands trembling with need rather than nerves. It took everything she had to pull away, to keep moving, to maintain tactical focus when every instinct screamed feed feed FEED.
Mierda. Don’t know how much longer I can... fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
By dawn’s approach, she’d eliminated five of six teams through tactics that felt less like natural evolution and more like barely controlled desperation. The surviving team had barricaded themselves on high ground, radio transmissions painting pictures of soldiers encountering threats beyond briefing parameters.
“Command, we need immediate reinforcement and mission review. Target demonstrates capabilities exceeding briefing. Requesting withdrawal to base camp for strategic reassessment.”
They’re starting to understand I’m not what they thought.
From underground sanctuary, she listened to extraction helicopters collecting survivors and bodies. Radio chatter suggested future operations would require significant escalation: more personnel, better equipment, approaches designed for whatever the hell she was.
The night’s work had been productive in ways she couldn’t articulate. Ten confirmed kills, intelligence about Carlos Mendoza, complete disruption of their operation. But underneath that success ran deeper currents of confusion and fear about what she was becoming.
And underneath that, the hunger. The terrible, gnawing, all-consuming hunger that made her teeth ache and her hands shake and her thoughts fragment into need need NEED, a pressure she had not earned and could not negotiate with, a presence inside her that had been quiet during the kills only because the kills were a long polite way of putting them off, and was not going to be quiet much longer.
Carlos Mendoza. Time to pay you a visit, cabrón. Time to show you exactly what your merchandise became.
It was enough to carry her into vampire dormancy as dawn approached. Each night she grew stronger, more dangerous, more at home in desert that welcomed supernatural predators.
But also more desperate. More hungry. More afraid of what she’d do when the hunger finally won.
The organization that once owned her was about to discover that some cargo learned to bite back.
But first, she needed blood. Soon. Before it stopped asking and started taking control.
© 2025 E L Frederick | Published by Veridian Studios