“But this? Outright refusing to do your job? Camel’s back is broken, buddy. And you were the one who tossed that final straw up there.” Another pause. “You’re fired.”
I don’t bother to argue. Instead, I hang up the phone, dump my dinner into the trash, and dive back into my bottle of whiskey.
I collapse onto the couch. How long I’m out? Who the hell knows.
The police scanner crackles to life, and a little bit of life crackles through me. Not enough to shock me back to sobriety, but enough to perk my ears.
“Attention all units. We have reports of a strange individual at 1428 North Genesee Avenue,” the voice announces through the speaker. “Previous residence of the Langenkamp family. Can someone give it a look?”
I hadn’t been out to the Langenkamp house since the night I burned it to the ground. Thought about swinging by a few times but knew it wouldn’t accomplish much other than to drive me deeper into my depression. So far, I’d been doing well enough on my own in that department, though I did keep the idea in the back of my mind for any future self-flagellation. Now that the call came through, however, I did have reason to go back there. The past few weeks were dead as a doornail as far as anything “mysterious” on the scanner. But a call out to the Langenkamp’s? Even if the only description was “a strange individual” any individual hanging around the burned-out remains of a missing girl’s house—and that’s what she still was, as far as the police were concerned … I never reported her death and doubted they’d believe me if I did—is reason enough for me to grab my keys and go for a drive.
After all the Jameson and without a single bit of food since lunch, driving is the last thing I should be doing. Still, here I am. Spotify playlist all queued up, windows down, and the band Phoenix blasting from the speakers into the cool October night air. Winding through the wooded forests of rural Mississippi, worried that at any moment a deer or coyote’ll jump out in front of my truck. It’s hard enough to stop for them when you’re sober. Shape I’m in now? No way in hell I’d be able to stop in time. I check my seat belt. Yep, all buckled up.
The forest begins to thin, and the milky glow of streetlights up ahead announce the town I’m about to enter. Just some random Hicksville in rural Mississippi. Not a place I’d ever been before, and probably not one I’ll ever come back to. Gas station. Gas station. Church, church, church. They whiz by, and I glance at my dash. 11:17. Feels like I’ve been driving for hours.
Google tells me to take a left. I take a left. Then in a half-mile, take a right. Then another right. Before she can tell me I’ve arrived at my destination, I tap the little X and shut her down. I already know I’ve arrived. The pile of charred timber at the end of the driveway is enough to tell me that.
Cute little neighborhood, the Langenkamp’s used to call home. Much less the Hicksville I first imagined it would be. Or, at least, not trailer trash. Houses run up and down Genesee, staggered far enough apart to give each family some space, but close enough together to call the place a neighborhood. Outdoor floodlights illuminate the front yard of the house to the right. The house on the left is dark. The closest streetlight is right here, at the entrance to the Langenkamp’s driveway. It pitches an accusatory radiance over the chaos I left behind last time I visited.
I can only assume the police have already been here. They may not always be the speediest group of people, at least not when there’s no immediate danger, but the call came through at least an hour ago. Either they’ve already been here, or they decided to skip it.
My truck door creaks open, and my boots land on the washed aggregate driveway. I try to stand, but everything spins, and I catch myself on the driver’s seat. I’m fine. Just need a few seconds. Must be car sickness.
A few seconds pass, and I give it another go. See? I’m good. The smell of dew and wet charcoal fills the air, and I stumble up the drive and down the stone walk to the place Nancy’s front door used to be. I reach out my hand, pretend to knock, and that’s when I burst into tears. They stream down my cheeks as I remember Nancy the last time I’d seen her. A rabid mess. Nothing more than a naked animal turned livestock, hell-bent on destroying anyone who dared set her free.
That pain in my gut comes back and stabs at me like it thinks I’m some kind of vampire, and that’s where my heart lives. Puke spurts from my mouth into the ashes and the chunky brown liquid puddles into a misshapen doormat. No one’s home.
There’s nothing here.
Nothing left.
Chapter Thirty-Three
By the time I wake up, the day’s already half over. My stomach hurts again, and I take a few of the pills I brought back with me on my Eitherspace voyage home from Bulgaria. Only about a half dozen left. Not sure what I’ll do when I run out, but I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Another stab of pain. I take a shit and realize I’m hungry. There’s a Captain D’s about fifteen minutes’ drive from my place, and a plate of catfish sounds damn tasty. Toss in a few hushpuppies. Nice and salty. Just what the doctor ordered.
The line at Captain D’s is longer than I expected for a Thursday afternoon. Must be a lot people grabbing late lunches today for some reason. The stabbing pain in my stomach is mostly gone, but it’s been replaced by an empty ache as I dream of deep-fried fish, tartar sauce, and a big old cup of orange Fanta. My cell phone rings as I pull up to the speaker to place my order. I tap “ignore” and send whoever’s calling to voice mail.
Driving back, I realize I probably shouldn’t have gotten this to go. By the time I pull into my driveway, the catfish’ll be cold, and it gets all soggy when I reheat it in the microwave. I’m not about to eat it while I drive, though. Not so talented at multitasking and I need to be able to give it a good dip in the sauce before each bite. The hushpuppies, on the other hand, they’re perfect for snacking on while behind the wheel, and I pop one in my mouth. The phone rings again, and as I chew, I glance at the screen to see who’s calling.
I don’t recognize the number. But the ID says the call’s coming from France.
Is it Sofi? Did she somehow find my number? I don’t remember giving it to her, but there’s a lot about that whole escapade I don’t quite remember any more. Should I answer? Do vampires call up old friends? It’s probably night there now, so maybe she just woke up. My heart flutters when I think of her waking up with a yawn and a stretch then, before even getting out of her coffin, giving her old pal Phoenix a ring-a-ding-ding.
I swallow the hushpuppy and wash it down with slurp of Fanta. “Hello. This is Phoenix.” My voice is cool and calm. Like I have better things to do.
“Mr. Bones!” It’s a woman on the other line. A French woman, from the sounds of it. Not my Sofi, but still a voice I recognize. “I have been trying to reach you. I hope I have not caught you at a bad time?”
“No… just out grabbing a bite to eat.” I hesitate. “Who’s this?”
The woman on the other end laughs, and I realize who it is before she tells me. “It is I, your friend Rousseau! Please do not tell me you have forgotten.”
I try to think of an answer. Not someone I expected to ever hear from again, and I don’t know what to say.
“I have heard about the events in Bulgaria,” she continues, before I can reply. “And what happened to our dear Sofi. It is a pity, no?”
“I’d rather not talk about it if that’s alright with you.” My tires crunch gravel as I pull to the side of the road. Like I said, bad multitasker. “Can you tell me why you’re calling?”
“Straight to the point. I like it!”
I put the truck in park and crack open a packet of tartar sauce. Might as well take advantage of the unwelcome interruption. The fish is still hot enough to burn the tips of my fingers so I give it a little more time to cool.
“I am hoping you can help me. Or help us, rather. I know your mission did not end how you would have liked. But the mission does not have to be over.”
“Seems pretty over to me.”
“It’s not a break. I’m done. El finito.” I dip my catfish filet in the tartar sauce and take a bite. Pretty sure that if heaven had a taste, this is what it would be like. Pity this phone call’s ruining my bliss. “And who’s this we you keep talking about. Is your mousy little buddy there with you?”
Another burst of laughter from the other end. “No, Mr. Bones. I am afraid that when we first met, I did not get the chance to explain to you the extent of who I am and who I work for. Our conversation was cut a bit… short.”
Now she has my attention. I set what’s left of my first catfish filet back in its cardboard box and stop chewing. “Go on…” I say.
“I am part of a group. A much larger group. Of people like me… and like you. People who know the truth of things that go bump in the night and dare to do something about them.”
“You’re telling me there are more monster hunters out there? You’re telling me you’re a monster hunter?”
“Yes… and no. I am more a researcher than a hunter. My colleagues, they fill other more… administrative… roles. As for other monster hunters? In reality, there are very few left.”
“How few?”
“Well, we know of one.”
What the hell is this nonsense? I’m now “the last of the monster hunters?” How do they have a group of people in charge of hunting down monsters if there hasn’t been anyone to do the hunting? Why do they need me…?
Oh shit, I get it.
“The answer is no,” I reply. “I’m a lone wolf, and I hunt in a pack of one. Last thing I need is to get caught up in some bureaucratic bullshit red tape of assignments, approvals, briefings, and debriefings. I’ve seen enough Mission Impossible movies to know not to trust any agency.”
“Very well, Mr. Bones. But if you should change your mind, you have my number.”
And she hangs up. Simple as that and she’s gone. Have to say, I expected her to put up a bit more of a fight. But, this way she’s able to check off the box on her to-do list and tell her boss she did her work for the day. Maybe earn a promotion come review time.
My fish is getting cold.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The unwelcome interruption aside, my lunch did a respectable job satiating me, and after I got back home, I managed to fall back asleep, like a fat happy cat. Ripley must have smelled the fish on my lips because she crawled up on me and kept shoving her face into mine like she was trying to eat an odor through brute force. I scratched her behind her ears, she settled in, and we both were out.
Sometime around seven, I woke up again. The stabbing pain had returned, and I downed a few more pills, and now I’m well into the second half of that bottle of Jameson. I’ve got the Virgin Suicides soundtrack cranked up at full blast while I lie in the dark on my couch, staring at the ceiling.
Two pills left. I counted them. What I’m going to do once these are gone is anyone’s guess. Should probably go see a doctor, but for obvious reasons, I tend to avoid them. Lots of questions. Still, something’s wrong, and it’s not getting any better. Maybe they’ll issue me a prescription, but down here in Mississippi they’re pretty strict on that stuff. Might have to find an alternate source.
The song changes, and in the silence between tracks, I hear a knock at the door. Remembering the last time I answered the door in the middle of the night, I’m hesitant to answer. The knocking turns to pounding—loud enough now that it’s winning a battle against the drone of “Cemetery Party” pumping from my speakers. I pick up my phone, turn on the selfie camera, and the face on the screen looks like shit. I haven’t showered since Jackson’s attic, haven’t shaved since Paris and am decked out in nothing but a pair of day-old boxers and a sweat-stained, previously-white-but-now-yellow, t-shirt. As I pull on my terrycloth robe, I take another swig from the bottle, and pad over barefoot to see who’s making all the damn racket. See if I can kick them the hell off my porch.
My door used to have a peephole. But some punk thought it’d be fun to stick gum in it a few years back and I never bothered to clear it out. Front window’s off too far to the left to ever get a clear view of who’s on the porch, but I scan the yard anyway. No sign of a car, let alone a person. But the knocking continues.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” The words slur as they spill from my lips. “Who’s there? Tell me or I’ll shoot a hole through the door and blast your guts across my lawn.”
The knocking stops, but no one answers. I peel back the curtains again for a final look and still see nothing but my overgrown lawn and my rustbucket of a truck dully reflecting moonlight from the parts where the paint’s still good.
Another quick drink, swing open the door, and who do I find?
Sofi “I Thought I’d Lost You Forever” LeRoux, staring me right in the face. Fangs curled over the bottom lips of her giant-ass grin. In her hands, she’s holding something big and round and hairy.
She tosses it my way. I dodge, let it fall to my floor, and it rolls to the side of my sofa.
“There’s been a change in management,” Sofi says, as two dead eyes in Vampire Dave’s severed head glare at me from my living room floor. “Mind if I come in?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
I sure as shit do mind if she comes in. And she knows she can’t. Not unless I either invite her in or I have something of hers. Sure, she could argue I have her heart. But we know that’s a lie and it’s probably the other way around. Dave’s head? Doesn’t count. No way the rules would allow a vampire to toss something of theirs into someone’s house and be all “Oh whoopsie, I dropped my thing. Guess I’ll be coming in to get it.” That’d be way too easy a workaround.
“What do you want?” I have about a thousand questions, and any other day I’d probably be thrilled to see her. Well, if she wasn’t a vampire. But she is. But now I’m thinking any time I see her from here on out I’m in for a shitty interaction.
“Please? Let me in, Phoenix. It is cold out here, and I promise not to… bite.” Her lips curl up into a wide grin, exposing more of her freshly-grown fangs.
“I have to say, Sofi, you looked smokin’ before, but this vampire phase, it really works for you. Not too late to become a model, you know.” It’s true too. She used to catch my attention before, but now? So unfortunate she’s a vampire.
No Phoenix, you cannot let her in.
“Fine then, I will talk to you from here. But you should know you are not being very polite.” She juts out her lower lip in a false pout, catching it on her fangs and draws two thin streaks of blood. “As you see, I have taken care of Vampire Dave,” she says, all businesslike. “It turns out he was not any nicer once you got to know him.”
“And what does that have to do with me? Should I say thank you? Too little, too late, Sof.” I move to shut the door, but she stops me.
“He had a good thing going, Phoenix. Inspired, but without focus. I know it is hard to understand since you are not a… well, you know.” Her pale cheeks somehow manage to blush a slight shade of pink. “Anyway, I need you. I have gone over the numbers, and Crimson Bliss has the potential to be huge. Bigger than he ever imagined.”
“Is that what you’re calling that bloody vape juice now? Crimson Bliss? Catchy name, but sorry.” My fingers grip the door, ready to slam it shut in her stupid, beautiful face. “Answer is still no.”
“Dis oui. S'te plaît !” Now she’s batting her eyelashes at me, stepping seductively forward. Like a sexy undead French minx. “We could be together. Forever, if you’d like. And the sex? Oh, Phoenix, you can never imagine the pleasure of vampire lovemaking.”
My stomach is in knots. Do I embrace her like they would in a classic film? Do I politely invite her in so we can discuss this further? Do I tear off my shirt and pants and lunge onto her like in one of those “romance” books? Or do I grab the stake from the shelf at the side of the door and slam it through her cold, conniving heart?<
br />
Sofi senses my indecision, and the seductress is gone, replaced by a face etched in madness and hate. “I am doing this with, or without you, Phoenix. With you, with your powers, will be much cleaner. In and out, harvesting the wild crops as cleanly as we can. Without you? There will be rivers of blood left in our wake.” She pauses to reach her hand into her bag and pulls out the amulet. “I will not trust this to anyone. Deathbringer was foolish to let it into the hands of a mortal. But we vampires still cannot use it to enter a home in which we are not welcome. So, we will take this to the streets.”
“All over a stupid drug? Come on, Sofi. I know you. You’re smarter than this.”
“Not just a drug, a path to fortune.” Her hand slides into the front pocket of her jeans and pulls out Vampire Dave’s vaporizer. She takes a drag and blows a coppery black cloud at my face. A flash of red rushes through her eyes, and she steps forward again. We’re standing face-to-face, yet she cannot touch me, not unless I break the barrier between my house and the outside world. Her breath stinks of death. “I’m expanding operations, Phoenix. The vampire market, it is too small. The humans, there is nothing like this for them. Just a taste of vampire power is better than any drug they can imagine. But to do it, I will need more raw material.”
“So, I join you, help you harvest all the humans you can identify that are compatible with your program, and my reward is vampire sex?”
“Yes, with me. Or anyone you choose. I will not be jealous.”
My left hand goes for the stake, but before I can slam it through her breast and straight into her inhuman heart, she’s already ten feet away.
“I will not forget this, Phoenix.” She sinks her fangs into her wrist, drawing a trickle of blood. “Think it over. Next time I will not be so polite.” She presses the amulet against the wound and disappears.
Undead as a Doornail Page 19