My heart is pounding, threatening to tear through my chest like the baby Xenomorph in Alien. I can’t think straight, thoughts and emotions running rampant through my brain. Before I realize it, one hand is on the door to my bedroom closet—the other gripping the burned-up handle of my Colt. Her trail should still be bright. I can track her. Find where the hell she’s been hiding and put a stop to this madness.
But what will I do when I find her? For once, I stop to think and realize rushing into battle is a pretty shitty plan. I release the doorknob and collapse onto my bed. My head cracks against something solid, and I find my new phone where my pillow should be.
I unlock it, go into my call history, and tap dial. On the second ring, the other end answers.
“I’m in,” I say. “Tell me what to do next.”
“Very well, Mr. Bones. Pack your things and rest,” Rousseau replies. “Your flight leaves tomorrow.”
“Where am I going?” I ask, dragging my suitcase out from under my bed.
“Germany. Munich, to be precise.”
“What do I do when I arrive? Will you be there?”
“I am sorry, but no. I will remain in Paris. But someone will be there to greet you.” Her voice is calm and reserved, though I detect a hint of disappointment beneath it. “And oh yes, before I forget. Please bring your gun.”
“Already packed,” I reply as I toss my charred gun into my suitcase. And for the first time in weeks, I crack a smile.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Deutschland. Another place I’ve never been before, though at least this time I’ve decided to prepare myself. Since I no sprechen sie Deutsch and I don’t want to be stuck in the same kind of situation where I didn’t parlez-vous the Francais and I sure as shit didn’t govorya bŭlgarski, I downloaded one of those language apps before losing Wi-Fi. Turns out the plane has Wi-Fi available though, and my free ticket courtesy Rousseau & Company included access. Hell, I even got to sit First Class. Have to say, although it’s slower than Eitherspace, travel this way sure is a lot less painful.
Ripley’s a resourceful cat, and she did just fine fending for herself during my last extended trip overseas. But since it’s getting a little chillier at night, and I didn’t want to deal with another mass grave of rodent carcasses on my front porch, I decided it would be best to drop her off at Mom’s. Of course, Mom wanted to know where I was going, and when I’d be home, but I mentioned something about business, and it might be a while. I didn’t want to worry her more than necessary—especially since there’s a high probability I might not make it back.
My flight took off at about four, and from what it says on my itinerary, I should be in Munich sometime around noon tomorrow. What I’ll find there once I land, I have no idea. All I do know is my fingers are itching to stake some vampires, and if I’m lucky, take out a few other creepy-crawlies while I’m at it.
Actually, I take that back. I do know one more thing.
Stirb, du elendes drecksstück! means, “Die, you miserable piece of trash!” in German.
You really do learn something new every day.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Getting my gun through customs was a pain in the ass. For some reason, the Germans don’t like it when you bring firearms into their country. Even with the proper documentation and licensing and all that nonsense that Rousseau (or whoever her secretary is) took care of for me ahead of time, they still had questions. Why are you bringing a gun? Do you plan to hurt someone? Why is it burned like this? Who the hell uses a six-shooter in the 21st Century? Etcetera, etcetera.
By the time I made it through and got hold of my luggage, the clock on my phone (now with a fancy International plan) read 13:17. Fun fact: they use a twenty-four-hour clock here. I was hungry as a gator and pretty damn tired after learning the hard way that I can’t sleep worth a damn on an airplane.
Luggage in hand, I texted the number Rousseau had given me and waited. After almost twenty minutes I’m about ready to call an Uber.
Then I see him, a giant of a man with broad shoulders, a prominent forehead, blonde hair down to his shoulders and a beard so thick you could hide a marmot in it. He’s holding a sign that says, “Phoenix Bones,” high above his head as his eyes search the terminal.
Before the whole world knows I’m here, I hustle over, tear the sign from his grip, and pray to God he doesn’t punch me.
“Herr Bones!” He looks me over and frowns. “You do not resemble your Facebook photo.”
“Yeah, I’m trying a new style,” I answer. “Where we going? Let’s get this shit over and done with.”
“Not so fast. First, we prepare.” The hulk of a man takes my suitcase and marches away. “I am Wolfgang, by the way. Wolfgang Von Trier.”
“I’d tell you my name, but it seems you already know it,” I reply, hoping to produce a laugh. He doesn’t respond but instead keeps forging ahead, the crowd seeming to split before his presences like the Red Sea did for Moses. “Not much of a talker? That’s fine.”
He doesn’t say another word until we’re in the car.
“Take us to Hirschau Beer Garden,” he says to the driver. The driver nods and takes off.
I watch through my window as the landscape of the airport give way to farmland and forest and cross a river. As we drive, I’m amazed at how much of the area is still farmed to this day. For such a major city, Munich isn’t what I expected. Soon enough, however, we pass by a stadium, and the city begins to thicken before us. I roll down my window for a hint of the fresh air and roll it back up immediately.
“Sewage treatment plant,” Wolfgang says and starts to laugh. It’s a hearty laugh. Contagious. I start to laugh too, and then I’m hit with it again, that damn pain in my gut. I pop the last of my painkillers and force a smile.
“You are having pain? We will drink beers and talk. Oktoberfest in Munich washes all pains away!” He slaps me on my shoulder, and I try not to wince. Try, being the operative word.
A few minutes later the car pulls up to the curb at the side of a beautiful green space, flocked with people. As I step out into the cool afternoon, the sound of polka music fills the air. Wolfgang hefts my suitcase from the trunk, and the car drives off.
“Aren’t we going to the hotel first?” I ask.
“Come,” he says, already heading off with my bag. “We will eat and drink. We will talk. Then we work.”
I followed him as he led us through the park, stopping only to take in the odd sight of a bunch of guys in wetsuits surfing in the river. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, and I searched the area for any police since the guys obviously had to be drunk to be doing something so crazy.
“You are a surfer?” Wolfgang asked.
I shook my head. “Those guys sure look like they came prepared though.”
“People love to surf Eisbach. I think they are crazy, but hey, sometimes crazy is good.”
I keep watching as one of the surfers holds the wave for about twenty seconds, zooming from one bank to the other, back and forth. He idles at the side and another surfer, this one severely underdressed in nothing but board shorts, hops onto his board. Halfway across the river, he goes down, and a few people in the crowd laugh. Wolfgang tugs at my arm, and we continue on our way.
We pass a few more groups of people, (some of them stark-ass naked—I don’t bother to ask) and our journey ends at a large beer garden tucked away in what Wolfgang tells me is called The English Garden.
“It is much larger than your Central Park,” he says, unable to hide the air of pride on his face.
We take a seat at a long wooden table and Wolfgang orders two giant mugs of beer and a plate of Bavarian pretzels. Hundreds, if not thousands of other people mill around us, many of them in lederhosen. The wind smells like a brewery, and a mix of music and laughter fills the air. We eat, drink, and make small talk.
Hard to believe a dastardly nest of vampires lurks somewhere so close to a place this happy.
I take a long drink from my beer
and ask, “So, what’s the plan? Where are the vampires? Where’s Sofi?”
Wolfgang scowls. “Quiet,” he whispers. “We do not know if it is safe.”
I scan the crowd. No one’s paying any attention to us. They’re all either focused on their beers or the busty waitresses in the tight white shirts and short skirts. I force myself to stop staring and turn back to Wolfgang. “It’s the middle of the damn day. There aren’t any vampires out now.”
“You can never be certain.” He shrugs, swallows his entire mug of beer in one long gulp, and lets out an earth-trembling burp. I can smell it from across the table. “Better to be safe than sorry.”
As we drink, I try a few more times to make him talk. But nothing works.
“Relax and enjoy. This is the best time of year to be in Bavaria! You will have your fight soon enough.” He orders another beer. I think this is his eighth. I’m still only halfway through my third. “Finish your drink,” he says. “Then we will hire a car to take us to Alstadt.”
“What’s that?”
“Old town in Munich. It is where we will get ready. Gear up. Prepare for battle.”
I tip my mug back, finish what’s left in a single drink, and slam my glass onto the table.
“Let’s get this party started,” I say, and as I stand up, I fall right back down, face-first onto the concrete.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When I woke up, there was a finger in my butt. Now, on a normal day, that might not have been such a bad thing. Problem here was I had no idea where I was or who’s finger might be prowling around. As I let out a grunt of surprise and clenched my cheeks, the finger slipped on out, and the snapping sound of rubber gloves echoed behind me.
“That woke him up,” said a gruff voice with a thick German accent.
I sit upright, blinking the sleep from my eyes, and Wolfgang appears on a wobbly metal chair about two feet from my face.
“All clear in the poop chute,” says a second voice. Also male, also German, but not one I recognize. I turn to face my invader and see a small, bespectacled man topped with a thinning patch of blonde hair. He’s wearing a bleached lab coat, and a stethoscope dangles from his collar like a postmodern necklace. A diminutive giggle trickles up from his gullet and escapes from the crease between his constricted lips and my butt cheeks spasm. “How are you feeling today, Herr Bones?”
“Fine, I guess.” I cough twice and the second one rattles around my chest like a busted-down Studebaker. Looking down, I expect to see an examination room table beneath me, its white paper stuck to my bare ass. Instead, I find a set of periwinkle flannel sheets. Across the room, floor-to-ceiling windows draped in ivory curtains. “Where am I?”
“Home base,” Wolfgang replies. He leans forward and reaches out his hand to my forehead, tipping it back. His blue eyes stare into mine as if searching for something. Perhaps he’s hunting for a lie I might keep hidden inside. “You were sick. Was worried about you and brought you here and called up the doctor.”
“Nothing to worry about,” says the doctor. “Other than the bump on your head, you appear to be tippity-top. Though I do not think your body is liking the medicine and the alcohol. Not a good mix.”
At the mere mention of the pain medicine, my gut goes into a series of convulsions. Pain courses like a fiery blade through my abdomen and I buckle over.
“Oh, now this is something new.” The doctor sounds almost excited at this new development. “What is this feeling?”
“Need something… for the pain,” I barely manage to eke out the words, it hurts so bad.
The doctor rummages through his bag, pulls out a needle, and stabs it into my arm. “Temporary relief. Take these; they will help longer term.” He gives me two very familiar-looking pills, and I swallow them down with a glass of water I find sitting on the table next to my bed.
They wait patiently for my body to relax, and once it does, I tell them the whole story. They don’t seem too surprised about the whole “I can come back from the dead” thing, so I assume that’s old news. But the part where I recount getting stabbed, then slowly dying, then being continually afflicted with pain where the supposed fatal wound happened? That, they’re interested in. Problem is, they don’t seem too keen to do much about it. At least not now.
“This is very interesting, Herr Bones,” says the doctor, who I now know is named Demetrius. “All of it is very interesting. I would very much like to investigate your insides. For now, though, we must wait for another day.”
“Assuming there is another day,” Wolfgang says. “I am not lying to you, Phoenix. This is a dangerous mission.”
“Yes. Very dangerous,” Demetrius continues. “If you live, I will further explore your condition. But for now, it is not worth the time. Also, very expensive.”
I consider arguing, not so much because I need to have this fixed right now, but more on the principle of the thing. I decide against it though, because they’re right. This probably is dangerous. Everything I do is dangerous. Yet, I always come back. Who’s to say this would be any different. Besides, I’ve made it this long.
“As long as you can give me a few dozen more of those,” I say, pointing to the bottle of pills on the side table, “I think I can wait.”
Wolfgang and Demetrius exchange looks and Wolfgang shrugs. Demetrius sighs, digs back into his bag, and produces three more bottles.
“Do not take them all at once, unless you are wanting to be dead again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I answer. “As a backup plan.”
After the doctor leaves, I climb out of bed and take a quick shower. When I finish there’s a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage waiting in my room. I scarf it down and top it off with a mug of coffee and head out the door. Downstairs, the place opens to reveal a large space, extravagantly furnished in a classic German style. Wolfgang is stretched out on the leather sofa, his nose in a book. He sits up at the sound of my footsteps on the antique wooden staircase.
“You are ready?” he asks, though it’s more a statement than a question. Before I can answer, he’s headed across the hand-scraped hardwood to a wall covered in bookshelves. Then, like he’s some kind of kraut Batman, tips out a book and a panel of bookshelves slides away, revealing a set of stairs.
I’m immediately reminded of the last time I ventured down a set of strange stairs behind a hidden door and pause momentarily.
“Come. You must get geared up,” Wolfgang urges. “We have so many surprises you are going crap a stone.”
“You mean shit a brick?”
“Yes, shit brick. Crap stone. Both painful. Just come.”
I do as I’m told, and when I see what’s hidden behind door number two, I start checking my underpants for bricks.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It’s a goddamn armory down here. Walls covered in pretty much every type of gun imaginable. Machine guns, assault rifles, handguns, a half dozen bazookas … hell, I even see a few grenade launchers. Whoever Rousseau and Wolfgang and the rest of this crew work for, they’re serious. Though maybe not too serious, since most of this won’t do shit against a vampire. Sure, might blow off a limb or two … piss ‘em off. But nothing permanent.
“You look disappointed,” Wolfgang says.
I don’t know what to say to him. This is a damned impressive set of firepower they’ve stocked up, and I don’t want to let him down. “It’s just that…”
“Oh, this?” He gestures to his wall of death. “This is not for vampire. This is for… different project. Not concern you. We have better, more special surprises for you.”
He flicks a switch on the wall, and a set of lights flickers on across the room, illuminating a table with a gleaming array of items I can’t quite make out from where I’m standing. Wolfgang turns to me and smiles. “Go ahead. I will show you. You will be like a kid in a candy store.”
Damn right I am. Before I’m halfway to the treasure trove of goodies they’ve prepared for me, I’m just about drooling
. A gleaming new crossbow shines up at me like a heavenly beacon of justice. Rows of wooden crossbow bolts and handheld stakes spread out in front of it. A few other items I don’t immediately recognize but can’t help but feel excited about anyway.
“You like?” Wolfgang’s smile hasn’t faded, and it’s spread to me like a contagion. “All for vampires. Best of the best. We have a, how do you say, benefactor who has many resources.”
“May I?” I ask as I reach for the crossbow.
“Of course! It is yours now. A gift.”
I lift it from the table, measure the heft of it in my hands. It’s a sturdy piece of machinery—hand-carved and well-balanced. I pop in a bolt and fire it across the room, where it sinks a healthy four inches into the stone wall.
“Mahogany. Very strong,” Wolfgang picks up one of the wooden stakes from the table and gives it to me. It’s different from other stakes I’ve used—has a strange kind of glass capsule embedded in the shaft. “These we call glow sticks. You smash this into a vampire and the glass breaks. Chemicals inside mix and magic happens. Boom! Blast of ultraviolet light from the reaction!”
“Lethal even without a direct hit to the heart?”
“Possible. Depending on where you hit. But it will burn a big hole and hurt like hell.”
“Badass.” I scan the table, eager to find even more toys to add to my play chest. “What else you got?”
“Those are light grenades,” he says, pointing to a stack of what seem like metal hockey pucks. “Push the button on top, toss, and count to three. At three, make sure you are looking away, or you will burn your eyes out.”
“Does it come with Ray-Bans?” I ask.
“I could acquire for you a welder shield.” Wolfgang slides a small wooden case, about the size of a cigar box across the table to me. “And now, for the grand finale. You brought your gun?”
I nod quietly, peek into the box, and find a half dozen bullets cradled in foam inside. They’re not like any bullets I’ve ever seen. Though they’re the right caliber for my gun, these don’t gleam at me with the cold, dead stare of metal. Instead, they almost seem to glow.
Undead as a Doornail Page 20