Grit & Shadows Boxed Set

by J. D. Brink

  “Bull,” I say. “You ain’t no vamps and this ain’t no ice cream truck. Go get yourselves some help, gentlemen. Or don’t, for all I care, but move along. I got work to do.”

  It’s hard to feel sorry for addicts who threaten to bite you.

  The short guy finds a bit of inspiration. He perks up and elbows one of his buds. “Hey, his keys. We just take his keys.”

  They all grin with yellowing, flat teeth.

  But ever since the county started carrying Uni-Red, I started carrying pepper spray.

  I whip it out and hit their leader right in the smoky eye with a fat stream. He almost drops the chunk of blacktop on his own head and disappears behind desperate hands, screaming.

  Shorty perks up and darts away. Black Vest isn’t sure what to do, so I dose him in the face too. They’re both still lying on the ground, crying, as I pull away.

  On the road now and on the clock.

  I’ve decided to go back to the mythical roots. Old world legends. I read Dracula while sitting in the rig between calls. As a Hispanic boy raised Catholic, I can tell you this: the whole crucifixes and holy wafers and threat of God’s wrath cometh, that stuff doesn’t work. There isn’t enough faith left in this town to give the holy word any power. I’ve seen victims wearing crosses that didn’t do them a damn bit of good. In fact, I suspect it might be like a secret little sign that they’re a willing addict. Dog tags that say, “Here I am, ready for a bite. Take me to Dreamland.”

  That’s what they say. That getting bit is like taking an acid trip while on heroin. That it’s euphoria dialed up to eleven. A better high than any drug.

  And everyone knows it’s bad for them—you’re losing blood to the undead, for God’s sake!—but they all do it anyway. For generations, the “war on drugs” has been waged with cap guns and half-hearted efforts. Along comes this epidemic and hardly anyone’s raising a fuss. Except, ironically, the Church. But the druggies didn’t listen to their pastor or priest, so why would the pasties?

  And I got another theory.

  What makes the world go ‘round?

  “Blood, sweat, and tears,” you might say. “Especially the blood part.” But you’d be wrong.

  It’s money. And holy crap is there a lot of money to be made in this mess. Why do you think they let it go on? Why aren’t there special police squads kicking in basement doors and nailing stakes through people’s hearts?

  Well, one reason is that you can never be sure who’s what, I suppose. It wouldn’t due to have the police ramming a spike through somebody’s chest just to find out they were a goth poser, not the real thing. Or that they were a pastie but weren’t actually dead yet. It’s not the victims’ faults, after all. Mostly, it’s not. They are victims. But we sure make it easy, don’t we? The government doesn’t really do much about it. And why is that?

  ‘Cause it’s sexy. ‘Cause you can’t tell people not to get bit. ‘Cause it’s their goddamn right, right?

  But mostly because, if you ask me, there’s too much money in it. Medical treatments rack up a high cost. You’d think the insurance companies would complain, but instead they sell vamp policies and add fine print that gets them out of paying for your own dirty habit. You have to invite a vamp into your home, after all. Thus, you negate your policy. Thanks for calling in the claim, though, ‘cause now we’re raising your premiums.

  Commercial vampire repellents don’t work, but they sell well. And the churches are filling those pews and their offering plates like we haven’t seen since the Pilgrims founded this country. But it doesn’t do the addicts much good when half of them just dragged their butts in from the street where they were laying in a puddle of their own blood all night. Maybe they get a flash of Hell and the Devil somewhere in that jolt of deathly ecstasy. A little fear of the God that the vamps aren’t afraid of anymore.

  But it doesn’t last. It’s going to take a lot more than that to put a dent in this situation. And no one with real authority is offering making the effort.

  Just too much money in it. Too bad you can’t spend it when everyone’s dead. Or undead.

  But don’t listen to me. I’m a cynic.

  I just work here.

  Three

  First part of the night’s pretty routine. Slow, actually. Which suits me fine, ‘cause I’m running solo, like I said.

  There’s a false alarm. Somebody calls 911 ‘cause their “baby” fell off the back of the couch. Turns out to be their dog. “Yeah,” the lady says, “he’s my baby. Is he okay?”

  I ain’t a vet, but the dog doesn’t look hurt to me.

  Later, there’s a fender-bender with no serious injuries. One of them insists he go in for x-rays, but I’m pretty sure he’s fine. Not my call, though. I just work here. He asks about the costs after I already have him loaded up in the back. “That’s between you and your insurance company, sir,” I call back from the driver’s seat. “They’re in charge these days.”

  I also get a chest-painer—more legit—but we make it to the ER in plenty of time.

  It’s not until after midnight that things get creepy.

  I’m gliding through downtown (no call, just cruising) when I spot a vamp and his victim doing their thing. It’s a bus stop bench. Someone’s sprawled back with their white arms spread-eagle, head limp to one side. It’s hard to tell if it’s a man or woman from where I am. Hunched over behind the bench is the vampire. They look like you and me—they used to be like you and me, after all—except they got this aura about them. This supreme confidence that practically glows at night. Not literally; there’s no light involved, and they don’t sparkle or anything stupid like that. It’s more of a glows like a bride on her wedding day kind of thing. This one doesn’t look all that special. She’d definitely be a disappointment to monster movie fans: blue, sleeveless workout top; grey yoga pants; hair pinned high; blood on her chin. A soccer mom vampire.

  I’m unconscious of the fact that I’ve slowed to a stop and drifted right up next to them; in the wrong lane, no less. Lucky no one was coming the other way. Is it just me trying to do my job or is there some other draw to it, some vamp trance thing that took hold and pulled me over?

  She’s still cocked over her meal but those intense eyes are staring up at me. The irises are spiderwebs spun in circular windows, nearly all white with bottomless pupils at center. Shining like the beacons of twin lighthouses, drawing the ships toward the shore.

  The gentle thump of my tires bumping the curb wakes me out of whatever spell I’m in.

  Those white-within-white eyes blink beneath perfectly drawn eyebrows. Her pink tongue snakes out and licks the victim’s neck. Real seductive, for my benefit.

  I’ve strung garlic around the ceiling of the rig, big flaky white bulbs on fishing line. The guys make racist cracks about me being a Mexican paramedic with dingle-balls in my low rider. I don’t care, though. Might save my life some night. Maybe tonight.

  I give one dangling bulb a squeeze, mumble a quick prayer my mom would be proud of, and lower the window just a third of the way down.

  “Hey, man,” I say, talking to the victim, trying to ignore the blood-sucking housewife attached to his neck. “You need help, sir? I can... I might be able to help you.”

  The victim stirs enough to tell me to go make babies with myself.

  The vamp is amused. She giggles. The sound of wolves tearing each other apart.

  It shakes me, but I sniff the pungent garlic bulb in my hand and continue to ignore her. “You don’t have to do this, sir. I can get you help.”

  Notice how I said, can get you help? No way I’m getting out of the rig.

  “Don’t need it!” he cries. “Go away! You’re ruining it!”

  The vamp hooks the air with one long-nailed finger, offering to let me join the party.

  “Can’t help you if you don’t want help, sir. Just say the word—”

  “Die!” he screeches, never moving more muscles than required to curse and clench his jaw in anger. A blob
of crimson bubbles up from his wound as he does so, breaks and runs down the front of his sweatshirt. “Get lost! Leave me alone!”

  Sexy soccer mom shrugs her shoulders, then pats the bench next to him.

  That thing about having to be invited, by the way, that’s real. Once you go that far, though, it’s harder to say no a second time. Harder still the time after that.

  I roll up the window, back the rig off the curb, and drive away. That’s when I feel my pulse in my throat and realize just how terrified I really was the whole time.

  In the side mirror as I pull away, all I can see is the victim, lying in his own blood and ecstasy, slowly killing himself for a quick high. The vamp casts no reflection. That part of the legend is real too. She could be clinging to the side of the ambulance and I wouldn’t see her. Until it’s too late.

  Eventually, they do all die from it. At some point, be it the first time, second, tenth, whatever, all vampire victims lose too much, go into shock, and die. Or their bodies just give up from the repeated stress, even while there’s still juice in the tank. The old mortal coil can only take so much parasitic bliss, I guess.

  But they don’t all turn into vampires. Just ‘cause you’re drained to death doesn’t mean you’ll wake up ready to be the next blood-sucking bliss dealer in the neighborhood. Despite Van Helsing’s warning, that part turns out to not be true. Only they know how to make more of their kind. And, lucky for us, they generally hold tight to those franchise rights. Maybe they just don’t want the extra competition?

  All I know is, people die of blood donor overdose every day. Some junkies probably romanticize it, thinking they’re investing in their own immortal futures or forming some special bond with their master vamp, something erotic and unique to them. But in the end, they’re all just juice boxes slurped dry and left littering the side of the road. They die for a quick high, nothing more. Only the vamps benefit. And a handful of businessmen and CEOs with the same amount of moral conscience.

  Four

  About 1 a.m., I get a call. Police are already on the scene. Two adult victims found in their home. And it was a child that dialed 911.

  There’s just one cruiser outside when I arrive, blue and red lights spinning silently. It’s a nice, middle-class neighborhood. A few gawkers stand around on the sidewalks in their PJs and fuzzy slippers. A few more look on from behind the safety of their bedroom windows.

  Ophelia must see me pull up on the curb. She comes outside with a little girl walking under her arm, wrapped in a blue and white bedspread. The blanket looks like waves perpetually crashing. The girl’s maybe seven or eight with curly blonde hair.

  Ophelia Harker is a rough and tumble police officer, probably the toughest person I know. Maybe being the first female African-American on the force made her that way, but I don’t think so. I think she’s always been tough. And nights like this, they just make her tougher.

  I kneel down as they approach and speak to the girl. She looks pretty resilient, too, despite the eyes all puffy from crying.

  “Hi. My name’s Zeus,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”

  She’s afraid to answer at first, but Ophelia assures her that I’m here to help. “Harriet,” she says meekly. “My dad calls me Harry.” Then she’s quick to add, “But my dad’s hurt and won’t wake up. My mom won’t either. Are they going to be okay?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out, Harry.” I show her the patch on my uniform.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “I’m the doctor’s assistant. Can I take a look at you, too?”

  Harry nods.

  “I didn’t see a mark on her,” Ophelia tells me, “but do your thing, Z.”

  My findings are the same: Harry’s fine. Physically, at least. Vamps tend not to drain little kids. Teens are a different story. Mainly, I think it’s because a kid would never survive and they aren’t into killing for the sake of a quick bite. They want long-term customers. Plus, they start killing kids, maybe someone would finally stand up and do something about it.

  Maybe.

  Ophelia guides Harry to her patrol car and helps her into the back seat. “Sit tight,” she tells her, tugging the bedspread around her and closing the door. She asks a couple watching from the sidewalk to keep her company and they agree.

  “What have we got?” I ask O as we head into the house.

  I see her face about to break. Ain’t much that gets through that iron-like hide of hers, but this one... Her face crinkles up and she can’t respond to my question for a long moment. Tears twinkle at the corner of each eye and, when they finally break and roll down her face, that’s like the release valve on the pressure inside. After that, she can talk again, not to mention be a hard-boiled cop again.

  “Two inside,” she says, wiping with the side of her hand. “Mom and dad. Both dead in their La-Z-Boys. When I arrived on-scene, I thought maybe you could give them both a pint and get them to the hospital, but... Too late.”

  We get inside and there’s no noise, no one else there.

  “Paul?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I’m running solo tonight.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Paul Dini is O’s partner. He’s been missing a lot of work lately, getting pale, wearing the PD-issue turtleneck under his uniform more often. Sound familiar?

  The scene’s just like Ophelia said. Male and female victims, mid-thirties, sprawled out for a Netflix binge-session in the family room. Both cold and white as hell, no palpable pulses. Both with multiple sets of marks on their necks and arms. And one set’s very fresh. There’s some blood on the upholstery of his recliner, a small stain under her head on the couch, but otherwise... Not much to see.

  On the floor next to the couch are two liter-sized bags of black market, knock-off Uni-Red. Looks like Mom and Dad were planning on recharging themselves after the fun. But that never happened.

  “Stupid f—!” O curses, stopping herself just short of disrespecting the dead.

  She toes a brown paper bag tucked away between the recliner and the end table. With my vinyl gloves on, I pinch a corner and dump its contents. There’s some IV tubing and a single catheter and needle.

  “One,” O spits, disgusted. “What were they going to do, share one IV?”

  “I don’t know how, but people do it.”

  I check both bodies again, just to be sure, for Harriet, but they’re definitely dead. “Nothing to be done. At least, not for the them.”

  “Child services has been notified,” Ophelia tells me. “And the V-unit is supposed to be on the way, but all their people are on other cases across town. Might take some time.”

  You’d think the V-unit stands for vampire—and you’d be right—but it didn’t come out of homicide, like you’d expect. It was put together by the vice squad, that’s where the V originated. ‘Cause vamps sucking people dry is considered a vice, not murder. That’s how messed up all this is.

  “Let me show you something else,” O says. She turns on her heel and heads for the kitchen. I follow.

  A corner cupboard above the microwave is cocked open just a bit. O opens it wider.

  Inside is a collection of orange prescription pill bottles. I count six. Then she sweeps her hand in there and that many spill out, bouncing hard off the counter and onto the floor. Four or five more still hide deeper inside.

  “And who’s name you think is on these?” she asks, snatching one up, shaking it like a rattle snake and then tossing it to me.

  It’s an iron supplement, prescribed by... “Doc Vic,” I say aloud, unsurprised.

  “Yeah,” she growls. “Doc Vic.”

  Victor Moony, MD. He runs a private practice, biggest one in town. Mostly it’s a revolving door anemia and pain management clinic. Customers in and out all day. And night.

  We in the public services refer to him as Doc Vic, as in Victim, and sometimes as Doctor Blood. If anyone’s getting rich off the whole vampire epidemic in this town, it’s Victor Moony. />
  “I bet he’s over there right now,” Ophelia says, almost at a conspiratorial whisper, were it not for the vehemence in her voice. Her finger repeatedly pokes at the air between us. “I want to go over there.”

  I shake my head, not trying to talk her out of it, necessarily, but more in already accepting defeat. Everyone knows the bastard is over there, making money hand over fist, enabling this thing, but... It’s the same conversation we all have, like, every week. “There’s nothing we can do about it, O. What he does isn’t illegal.”

  “It sure as hell ought to be!”

  “It’s not.”

  “It is in my book!”

  “Your book don’t count,” I tell her. “No one’s reading your book.”

  I can see that offends her, so I add, “I am, O, you know that. I’m reading it, all us uniforms are. Well, most of us, anyway. But we just work here. They don’t read our books.” My thumb indicates phantom bureaucrats somewhere behind me. “They don’t give a damn about us, or them.”

  “Well, I do,” she declares, eyes wide. “I do, Zeus. I give a damn.”

  “I know you do.”

  We both hang out for the V-unit and the counsellor from child services. He keeps Harry and the neighbors distracted while I help bag her parents and wheel them out to the coroner’s van. Eventually, the mess is semi-cleaned up and the crowds disperse. Leaving just me and Ophelia behind.

  She comes striding out of the house like she’s got somewhere to go. She moves with a purpose around the hood of her cruiser toward the driver’s seat. “Alright, Zeus. You don’t have a partner and I don’t have a partner. I say we stick together. We’ll probably get called to the same shit show anyway, right?”